Many years ago both my husband and I served in the capacity of Camp Counselor for a rather small one-week children’s summer camp. There were maybe 6-8 counselors and 20-30 children. We knew all the families involved and undertook this endeavor as a favor to the parents who would be out-of-town for the week.

We did very primitive camping in the local mountains. (Translated: we camped in tents, did our own cooking on coleman stoves and in some cases had to haul our own water.) We planned for, shopped for and cooked all our own meals…and cleaned up. We set up our own tents and sleeping bags; we planned and gathered supplies for daily activities, crafts, games and lesson times. We drove up to camp and back. It was an incredible amount of hard work even in the best of weather…and then it rained.

It rained, and it rained, and it rained. The tents got wet…and wetter. The sleeping bags became quite soggy and a few counselors were assigned “laundromat duty” to take the wet sleeping bags to the closest town and dry them before the next night’s sleep.

Unfortunately it continued to rain…a lot. It was decided that we would move our entire camp from the mountains to the high desert so we could dry out. So soggy sleeping bags, wet tents and muddied clothing were all packed up and we were off.

It was a 3-4 hour drive from one location to another. And our new base of operations was even more primitive! It was an undeveloped tract of land in the high desert that we had obtained permission to use. There was nothing there! Nothing! Off the main road, you travel overland til reaching a “likely” spot. No trees, just low scrub bushes: and there we set up camp. Our latrine was a nearby dry wash which we descended into with a “buddy” and a shovel and a roll of toilet paper. (This latrine was perfectly open to the elements, so rain or no rain, thunder, lightening, or whatever – this was a oft-visited destination.) We began to settle into camp life…then it rained…a lot. And we decided to move camp…again. But before we moved, I had a small adventure with a tarantula.

It was lunchtime. The day was cloudy and overcast: on the verge of raining. But it wasn’t raining yet. The cooks had prepared some sort of chili concoction and we needed to gather the children for lunch. But this was primitive camping: no tables, no chairs, no anything. Where were the children to eat? Not on the ground; the ground was crawling with ants.

Tarpaulins! The children could eat sitting on tarpaulins! So we spread out the tarpaulins, gathered the children, gave thanks for our food and with our bowls in hand, we situated ourselves upon the newly-laid tarpaulins. Counselors and children were all jumbled up together, balancing our bowls on our knees and hoping no one knocked over their drinking cups while we were feasting.

We were sitting there, eating and chatting, laughing and giggling, when I felt a slight tickle on my leg; it was down near my right ankle. “Hmmmmmm” I thought, “Must be an ant.” (There were lots of ants around.) So, without even reaching under my long pants, I rubbed the tickle in question through the layer of pant and sock, hoping to stop that wandering ant (as I thought) dead in his tracks.

We continued our lunch, when a few minutes later I felt that pesky ant (or so I thought). He was a little higher up my leg – maybe mid-calf. “Oh” I thought, “I missed him the first time. I’ll get him this time.” And I rubbed my leg more vigorously over the tickling spot on my leg…and continued eating.

A few minutes later, I felt the “tickle” right below my knee. “This is ridiculous!” I thought. I set down my bowl of food and began to roll up my pant leg. I wanted to see the little critter, pick him off and throw him away before he got any higher up my leg.

I didn’t “hike up” my pant leg but rolled it up in a continuous outward-facing folding motion. As I turned up the pant leg, after about the third roll, there appeared a brown, fuzzy, longish bit of – it looked like a piece of brown yarn. I didn’t see it at the time, so I continued rolling and folding. On the next fold up, there he was on the inside of my pant leg: a big, brown, hairy tarantula!

My first instinct was to scream!!!
“But no” I thought, “I cannot scream. If I scream, it will upset and panic all the children” So I took a deep breath and S – C – R – E – A – M – E – D: “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!” As I screamed, I batted away the spider (with my bare hands – don’t ask). He went flying to the north, while I scrammbled to my feet and took off running to the south. The whole tarpaulin errupted in pandemonium: children, adults and bowls of chili all flying in different directions, the air filled with an assortment of screams and vocalizations. Most of those running and screaming didn’t even know why they were running and screaming. But they fully participated nonetheless.

When the panic subsided, the facts were ascertained and discussed; the spider was searched for, found and photographed; and as for myself, I walked around in a somewhat distracted, dazed condition wondering if what had just happened had really happened.